


To Have And To Hold

by fouroux



Category: U2
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/pseuds/fouroux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1993, a couple of nights before MacPhisto's first appearance in Europe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Have And To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> I've sat on this fic for so long, I don't even know anymore what all these words mean. I'll just leave this here and try to forget all about it, I suppose.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to my beta, the lovely Sam! All remaining mistakes are my own. None of this ever happened.

“How are the kids?”  
  
“Fine,” Edge muttered, his kind eyes cast down pensively as he closed the door to the hotel room behind himself. The TV was still running, showing an old film noir in French with Dutch subtitles as he returned to his accustomed spot on the bed.  
  
“They miss you.”  
  
It wasn't even a question, and Edge felt no need to answer, only ran his palms over the lapels of his bathrobe covering his thighs in quiet discomfort. Hollie had sounded particularly upset about her dad's absence, Arran had made a fuss about not wanting to go to bed without him tucking her in, and little Blue had been crying for no apparent reason at all. She was still too young to understand the circumstances just yet, but she was a sensitive little thing; hearing her sisters bicker had likely caused the tears, and Edge, feeling helpless and most of all to blame for the situation at home, had unsuccessfully pleaded with her to stop. For weeks now, almost every call had been like this, and it hurt him every time.  
  
“You know, it won't always be like this, Edge.”  
  
He really didn't want to talk about it. The break-up had caused them all enough pain at the time, and Edge had been glad to have a reason to leave his utterly quiet house behind and dive into the craziness that was Zoo TV. The main attraction of the circus sat in front of a desk and mirror on the other end of the room, with jet black hair, a towel around his hips, and a red lipstick stained wineglass by his side.   
  
“How's MacPhisto coming along?”  
  
“Not at all,” Bono glared at his reflection, then at the utensils in front of him and grabbed another tissue to wipe at his mouth. “The lipstick looks all wrong. Obviously, the old bastard just likes to give me a hard time.”  
  
Edge chuckled and crossed his ankles on the bed, glancing at the gloomy inspector in black and white on the TV screen before his eyes fell back on Bono's bare back. He had wisely decided against getting in between Bono's make-up experiment so far, but Edge could only bear watching him fuss and curse by himself for so long. “You know, you could always let someone from the crew do the job for you during the show.”  
  
“I know,” Bono wiped at his mouth some more, his lips as red as the lipstick from the repeated assault. “But it's a transformation, you see, Edge? I want to be able to do it myself, just in case.”  
  
“Let me try it.”  
  
Bono turned halfway to look over his bare shoulder in exaggerated surprise. Edge shrugged, he needed a distraction, and painting Bono's face into that of the devil seemed to be as good as any, as long as he didn't have to think about his crying children, his silent wife and his lonely house. “I might know a thing or two about applying lipstick.”  
  
“Why, Edge,” drawling his words and grinning saucily, Bono turned to pick up all the things needed for his alter ego and came sauntering over on naked feet, arms full with supplies. “You dirty dog. Now there's a story worth telling.”  
  
Edge made way for Bono's make-up on the bed and sat cross-legged, watching Bono sit down in front of him with a face smudged with white paint and a flaming red mouth. “Not really. I just liked to watch her sometimes,” Edge admitted quietly and sorted through the things on the bed – two little pots with different shades of white paint, several lipsticks ranging from dark to bright red, tissues, a little bottle full with make-up remover liquid, eyeshadows and a black kajal pen, among other things. He went for a couple of tissues first and dampened them with the liquid.  
  
“I'll start over, okay?”  
  
“Have it your way,” Bono purred, and Edge expertly ignored the playful smirk and heavy innuendo in Bono's eyes with a faint smile of his own, then silently went to work. The paint was thick, and some spots were more persistent than others due to Bono's sloppy distribution, but Edge was meticulous, as in all things, and went over every sharp angle until Bono's face was pink and clean. In the background, the TV still drawled on in a heavy French accent.  
  
Lowering his hands, he looked at Bono's narrow face and smiled. “There. Now, where's your face cream?”  
  
“Oh. I didn't use any face cream, Edge. Should I have?”  
  
Lingering on the naïve look in Bono's eyes, Edge shook his head eventually and turned towards the nightstand next to the bed. He opened the drawer and pulled out a tube of hand lotion he carried with him no matter where he went. “Suppose this'll do.” Uncapping it, he squirted some of the cream onto his fingertips, closed and tossed the tube, then rubbed his hands together. “Alright, close your eyes.”  
  
Bono did as he was told, and smiled and hummed blindly as Edge's slick fingertips ran over the planes of his irritated face, spreading the cream over his broad forehead and sharp nose, then rubbed his thumbs below Bono's closed eyes, his palms following down the narrow shape of Bono's face to his pointy chin. Rubbing his hands together once more, Edge finished by dragging his fingers along Bono's jaw and down a part of his throat, then drew away. Bono sighed.  
  
“Mmh. That was nice, The Edge, why did I forget about that part?”  
  
“I don't know. You usually jump at an opportunity to touch yourself.”  
  
Edge smiled at the low chuckle coming from Bono's throat, a smoky rumble born from the depths of his chest, and picked the pot with a brilliant shade of white, ignoring the more subdued one lying next to it, and unscrewed the lid. Dipping his right hand's fingertips inside, Edge scooped out quite a large amount and applied it to Bono's face in broad strokes, forgoing any make-up brushes. It was thick and sticky, proper show make-up designed to endure heat and sweat, and Edge stopped shortly to inspect his fingertips with a frown. It reminded him of wet clay.  
  
“Something wrong?”  
  
“No, sorry.” Shaking his head, Edge looked up again and continued running his sticky fingers over Bono's cheekbones. The paint turned Bono's face into an opaque mask, hiding any faults and imperfections, covering up freckles and marks. It was strange how it made his face appear even sharper, exaggerated his features; he almost looked like a caricature of himself. Thoughtfully, Edge ran his painted thumb across Bono's chin and watched the crescent scar disappear entirely.  
  
“Aren't you warm?”  
  
Snapping out of it, Edge looked down to spot a pair of familiar inquiring hands tug at the lapels of his bathrobe, exposing a little more of his chest than was really necessary. “I'm busy here, Bono, stop that.” Bono pouted a bit while Edge cleaned his fingers, then picked up the black kajal pen. “Hold still,” Edge muttered, holding Bono gently by the neck as he raised the pen to Bono's right brow and started to fill it out, then extended it at the end with a straight line upward towards his temple. He did the same on the left side.  
  
“How do I look?” Bono visibly enjoyed the treatment and smiled, the white paint making his mouth appear wider than it was, his face thinner and eyes more brilliant. Without the red lipstick he looked even more demonic, and somewhere in the pit of his belly Edge felt faintly queasy.  
  
“Like the devil.”  
  
“Excellent!” Edge almost expected him to clap his hands like an excited child, but Bono went to gather all the lipsticks out of the heap of make-up supplies instead. “The agony of choice is all yours now, Reg.”   
  
Edge wanted to argue that the eyeshadow was still missing, but he was immediately distracted by the many shades of red waiting to be picked and forgot all about it as his thoughts settled on Bono's mouth. Bono's lips were naturally pink, and he liked them pink, but when he looked at the lipsticks one after the other, he was intrigued. A darker red might have suited him better, but Bono's alter ego was more flamboyant than elegant, so he pushed those aside to consider the rest. For a moment, he lingered on a berry-coloured one, and Edge was reminded of a young love, shy smiles and lipstick stains on his belly.  
  
“Try this one,” Bono interrupted, not leaving it up to him after all, and handed Edge a bright red lipstick. It was the kind of red one would expect on a cheap prostitute, and maybe that was the point. “Alright,” Edge took the lipstick and gave Bono a little pocket mirror in exchange, which had laid buried among the things Bono had brought along. “Here, take this and watch how I do it.”  
  
He opened the lipstick and twisted the bottom half until the red colour popped up, then waited for Bono to hold up his little pocket mirror. “Right. Open your mouth a bit,” Edge instructed, then started out in the middle of Bono's bottom lip and drew a bright red line to one corner of his mouth, then returned to the middle and dragged the lipstick along to the other corner. It was easy enough, Bono's lips were fairly thin, so there was not much to fill out or correct, but he went over the entire length of it once again anyway, trying not to get distracted by the pink tongue resting behind it like the invitation it was. Bono's upper lip was even thinner, and Edge only used the very tip of the lipstick to paint it, being overly careful about it, then lowered his hand to look at him.  
  
There he was now. MacPhisto, with a smile full of mischief and arrogance, and icy blue eyes that had never once looked inside the mirror, but only at him. The character was a stroke of genius, Edge had to admit, just like all the other stage characters that had started to emerge before the start of the tour. Though now that he looked at him, Edge felt afraid. Afraid that Bono was going to lose himself in those characters, give up too much of himself to become his alter egos night after night. It would be just like him to tear himself apart for an idea, and Bono was already having too much fun strutting around as The Fly as it was once he left his hotel room, pissing off journalists and U2 haters alike. Sometimes Edge wasn't even sure who he was talking to, and it had bothered him from the start, but he couldn't tell him that; couldn't take Bono's armour away. Edge knew he needed it on this tour more than ever. But the devil – as brilliant as the concept of an aged, Vegas-loving lightbringer in fake gold and glitter was – felt almost too real.  
  
“Where are you, Edge?”  
  
His lips were so obscenely red, Edge felt dirty just looking at them. He stared, an involuntary shiver rippling down his frame as Bono's hands found Edge's thighs, slowly dragging up along the fleshy planes and riding up the lapels of his bathrobe with each soothing rub. “Hm? You keep zoning out on me,” Bono pointed out in a gentle tone, “I can help you with that, let me suck you off for a bit. Take your mind off--” - “Oh God, no,” Edge blurted out without thinking first, looking pained as he dropped the lipstick to hinder Bono's hands from venturing further.  
  
Bono chuckled and squeezed Edge's thighs, “Pardon, The Edge?”  
  
“No. Not with that face, I can't--” Edge stuttered, hysteria tickling at the bottom of his throat as the image in his mind took shape like a threat. His cock thought differently, however, and Bono looked amused, dimples carving deep lines into the white paint as he smiled. “That face? You mean, you don't want this old fellow to suck your cock?” Bono teased, his voice smoothly slipping an octave higher into the posh British accent he had practised for weeks until it had become as easy and comfortable as slipping on an old pair of jeans. Edge felt sick.  
  
“Stop it,” Edge demanded, but it came out like a shaky plea. “It's creeping me out, Bono, I swear.” - “Mmh, is that so?” Bono purred on, losing the accent, yet not the dangerously deep rumble and cheek in his voice as he palmed Edge's treacherous erection through the cotton of his bathrobe, leaning in. “And what's this? Tell me, Edge,” Bono whispered, squeezing the hardening cock tantalizingly and tilting his head for a kiss, red mouth inching closer.  
  
“Don't--”  
  
“Come on.” He was so close, Edge could feel the words take shape against his lips, blue eyes burning into his own. “I want to see what red looks like on you.”  
  
Bono's lips pressed gently against the tight line that was Edge's mouth, then worked slowly and patiently at him until he opened up and hesitantly returned the affection. Edge's eyes were shut tight, and he felt ridiculous about his behaviour, because behind the darkness of his eyelids: Bono was still Bono; he felt like him, tasted like him, and hummed like him in sweet pleasure as Edge eventually nipped at his bottom lip out of sheer habit.  
  
Small, strong hands kneaded at him, pulled away his bathrobe and exposed Edge's shoulders, arms and chest to Bono's never ceasing curiosity. His hungry mouth deviated and left Edge softly gasping for air, eyes blinking lazily and catching sight of slick black hair as Bono gently bit and sucked at his throat below. With one hand at Bono's neck, he raised his other to touch his own lips. His fingertips came back bright red.  
  
“It suits you.” Bono leaned away and smiled, his eyes raking over Edge's mouth and chin, following the red path down his throat. “You should consider wearing it more often.”  
  
Edge couldn't stand the way he looked. With Bono's narcissist rockstar persona, at least he could throw away the shades and tear at the leather until the person he loved came through beneath. But the devil was persistent, and when Edge looked at the smear of red still across Bono's lips and all the white that hid his freckled face, he panicked.  
  
Wrestling himself free of the rest of his bathrobe, Edge pushed the surprised but pliant singer back onto the bed, touching his bare body greedily to find and keep all of Bono he could. All that familiar skin, the dark hair on his belly and chest, the frame of his strong ribcage, the firm curve of his biceps; Edge touched it all. But his face, his face...  
  
“Turn over,” Edge demanded with a soft growl, trying to manhandle Bono's body onto his belly, but Bono fought back and giggled, resisting Edge's attempts. Edge gripped him tighter, shoved a little harder, leaving pink marks on Bono's skin, then finally pressed his stocky torso face-first into the mattress, the towel falling loose around Bono's hips. Bono grunted both in pain and exhilaration. The sound rumbled in his throat, then smoothly stretched into a purr as he writhed comfortably beneath his lover. Edge sighed deeply, watched Bono's hair curl at his neck, how his skin folded at the nape, then stretched over a broad back down to a square set of impatiently shifting hips. He knew this back, he had watched it for years from his corner of the stage, anticipating directions, a lift of the hand, a rolling twist of the shoulder. When to slow down, when to get louder. And he had watched it climb scaffolding with a racing heart and a stiff neck, had searched it after diving into an audience and hoping, dearly, that he would return whole, and Bono always had.  
  
Edge kissed him there, right between the shoulder blades, and felt Bono breathe beneath his palms. He scanned along Bono's waist with leisure, calming his nerves as well as the heaving of Bono's ribcage. He could feel every intake of air inside, the echo of Bono's quickened heartbeat bouncing off the walls, and it was all so familiar Edge was struck with such relief and the need to take him, it made him feel strangely faint.  
  
“Can you stay like this for me?”  
  
Bono protested. He always preferred to look at Edge when they had sex, and sometimes Edge wondered whether he was just another audience to him, another pair of eyes to love and admire the boy with a hole in his chest. If that was the case, Edge didn't mind; Bono made the most beautiful faces when he was inside him, but he just couldn't look at him now, not with the paint, the white and red. With his fingers slick and gentle, however, Bono's complaints soon ceased to husky groans and grunts, muffled by the pillow he nearly bit into below. The push inside was slow and tight, but it was that familiar feeling around Edge's cock that made him forget all about home, his inabilities and mistakes, and his fears most of all.   
  
His thrusts were gentle and shallow, and Edge continued on in that way, even after it became easier for Bono, who tried to push back and demand more the second it started to feel good. But Edge wouldn't let him, pressed all his weight down onto Bono's body to stall the inevitable for as long as he could. Bono writhed and whined at the slow grind of Edge's hips, his erection trapped between his belly and the mattress, and he couldn't even reach down to help himself for Edge's fingers were so tightly folded in between his.  
  
He sounded close to crying when he couldn't bear it any longer and sobbed, “Edge, please. I can't come like this, _pleaseplease_ , let me--”  
  
Irrationally, Edge didn't want it to end. Maybe, if they could just go on forever and stay in this bed, he wouldn't have to face his troubles ever again, return to a strange house that felt so silent without his girls, and lose his best friend to his inner demons and the lure of rock'n'roll. He was afraid, so afraid, but then he was already pumping, harder and faster, chasing after that feeling he didn't want to lose, but knew would run through his fingers like sand once he did catch it. Bono shouted and quivered in his arms, and then he was there and Edge felt like crying at the unfairness of it all.  
  
“Edge?”  
  
Bono turned sluggishly beneath the part of Edge's body still weighing down on him, and Edge rolled onto his back in turn, gazing at the ceiling as he caught his breath and listened to the Dutch murmur coming off the TV. Bono's hand came up to brush at his cheek, and Edge was surprised as he realized Bono was wiping away a wet trail.  
  
“Can you promise me something?”  
  
“Anything, Edge.”  
  
“Always come back.”  
  
Edge turned his head to look at the man beside him, Bono's face still looked eerily pale from the paint still clinging to his skin, but most of it had likely succumbed to the rub of the pillow and sweat. He looked confused and worried, but Bono didn't question him, his hand resting in Edge's neck offering him a reassuring squeeze. “Of course. Always.”  
  
Edge reached out for Bono's chin, his thumb rubbing at the crusty paint until it gave away and Edge could feel the fine silver welt of Bono's scar beneath. He smiled tiredly, convinced that it was not the devil speaking this time, and leaned in for a red, red kiss.


End file.
